


Resolution

by bombcollar



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Family, Gen, New Year's Eve, or the equivalent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 14:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13250238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: Lorian finds that old traditions and habits are not left behind so easily.





	Resolution

“What will you burn?” The priest drones.

“I will…” Lorian grips the strip of paper in his gloved fingers. The wind threatens to tear it free and send it wheeling over the sea cliffs. If that happened, he’d never get his absolution. “…I will burn my self-doubt. I will be stronger in my convictions.”

The shuddering firelight makes phantoms of them, faces lit in orange for brief instants. What could be seen of their faces anyway, tucked into their collars and hoods. To welcome the new year was to use the old as kindling, to burn away all grief and doubt. But grief was settled deep into his bones, in his marrow, so deep the fire could not reach it. 

He lowers the scrawl into the flames, but as the edge begins to blacken, a gust of wind steals it and flings it into the night. Slowly he withdraws his hand back to his chest, wondering what sort of omen this is.

* * *

 Lorian leaves before the ceremony ends, even though his divine constitution could have stood up to the serrated winter winds until midnight, as was tradition. If the fire burned beyond the midpoint, it was a sign that their kingdom would be prosperous in the coming year. Usually, it managed. Tomorrow he'd hear whether the winds had been too much, but even if the fire had burned healthy and bright until morning it wouldn't have undone the knot in his stomach.

The elder members of the pillars, the ones conducting the ceremony, they wouldn't easily forget him losing his grip on his kindling like that. Everything was a sign, the curls in a ribbon of candle smoke, the way the feathers of a departing crow landed, all of it held meaning but none of them ever seemed to agree on what that meaning was. It’s fortunate that Lothric is exempt from this particular ritual. After all, his fate was known. He was supposed to weather any sort of climate with his prayer robes and willpower alone, but Lorian refused to take him outdoors in winter for any longer than absolutely necessary, even wrapped up in furs.

With most of the castle residents either attending the bonfire outside or celebrating on their own, Lothric is left in peace, asleep on a couch Lorian had pushed closer to the fireplace, buried in several years’ worth of winter quilts. A pupa awaiting the spring thaw to emerge as the same scrawny caterpillar he’d been the year before. Lorian hangs his sopping cloak up and tosses another few logs on the faltering fire, prodding them until it’s crackling again, then sits.

“...what did you burn this year?” Lothric’s mumbled question takes him by surprise, as he’d expected his brother would be too deeply asleep to even notice he was there. _  
_

“Ah... nothing, the wind blew it away.” Lorian rubs at his neck sheepishly, keeping his hand there to try and warm his fingers.

“Oh.” The blankets shift as Lothric settles down again. “It’s a silly tradition, anyway...”

Lorian pats the lump he’s pretty sure corresponds to Lothric’s head, smiling even if it goes unseen. “It is a little silly, isn’t it. I don’t need a fire or a scrap of paper to know what I need to work on.” For all he did for Lothric already, for all he doted on the poor little bag of bones, he always felt like he could be doing more. His other duties demanded so much of him, but it never felt like enough, like he was holding an armful of fragile things that not one of them could be set down lest all the others topple. He was going to work himself to the bone at this rate. Even now he couldn’t help thinking of what cleanup awaited him tomorrow.

Lothric’s voice comes through softly under the layers of his blanket cocoon. “You should rest more, I think. You’re so _tired_... I can hear it. I know, I need so much care but... I’ll be alright on my own, for a little while. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you...” He wasn’t a little child anymore, he knew his elder brother was far from infallible, that he felt helpless or overwhelmed and broke down at times. Anybody would, under such demand. He takes a shaky breath, his tired voice cracking as he reaches out with one pale and spidery hand. “...you _need_ to.”

“...I know,” Lorian says, wondering just how weary he’d come across with the few scant sentences they’d exchanged. Though it seemed to many that Lothric slept most of the time, he noticed things. Weariness, like grief, sat in his bones like an anchor, encrusted over the years and only growing heavier, sinking deeper the longer he let its chain run through his fingers. Lorian takes the offered hand, wrapping it in both his own. Though he’d only recently emerged from the cold, his hands are still warmer than Lothric’s. “I’ll do my best, I promise.” For both of them, he would try.

After a moment, Lothric draws his hand back to the warmth of his cocoon, apparently satisfied enough to doze again, and Lorian watches the fire burn lower and lower. Before daylight it would go out, but he can’t allow that. So he stays up, stays watchful, and feeds it to keep the two of them warm until morning comes.


End file.
